Resident Evil VII: Friggin' Rednecks
by selrisitai
Summary: How might a person handle the events of Resident Evil VII: Biohazard? What would a person really think, say, or feel? Not sure how other people would handle it, but Corey has his own ideas. Rednecks, fungus monsters and a granny with a visceral army of Man-eating bugs firing from her crotch can wear a guy down. The only thing to do is brandish your flamethrower.
1. Chapter 1

"This is Corey, recording this from some addlepated plantation in Dulvey, Louisiana. I'm not happy. I got a message recently from my girlfriend, Mia, asking me to come here. Thing is, she's been missing for three years.

"Understandably I didn't trust her call, but also understandably I had to know what this was all about. Besides, it was like an adventure, and I love adventure. I'm regretting my decision. I'm in some dreary shack on a disgusting lake that I'm pretty sure evaporates overnight, because that's the only explanation for why it's so damn humid.

"I've had to fight fungus monsters, mosquitoes from hell, and the redneck version of wolverine. Fortunately, this house belongs to a bunch of backwater, country hick redneck lunatics, so I was able to defend myself with all of the weapons just lying around in the open. Frickin' rednecks.

"Oh, and did I mention that my long-lost girlfriend seemed to transform into a demon and tried to murder me? It's hard to say, hard to think about without starting to wretch, but, my hand was cut off. It sounds insane, but not as insane as the fact that some strange lady somehow reattached it. I, I thought I'd just make this recording lighthearted, but- hang on. . . ."

 **I**

"O.K., I'm back. Not for long, though. I was just taking a breather here and figured I'd record this message. If I die, which seems likely — and I'm so tired I don't even care anymore — at least this message will be here for posterior. Corey out."

He pressed a grimy finger to the black "stop" button on the recorder. It clicked down and the "record" button snapped up. The sound was stark in the quiet, stuffy air of the shack. Corey'd been resting for maybe an hour here, and his left hand, hanging at his side with an MPM pistol clutched in it, was now shaking much less.

He knew the truth of the matter: He was scared, but it didn't seem important right now, the emotion; what was important was finding Mia, exorcising her or whatever he needed to do, and getting the hell outta this redneck nightmare-house. The smell of vomit spurred him out of the rickety shack door, into the comparatively fresh night air, and onto the damp planks of the pier.


	2. Chapter 2

The evening was dark, hot and stickily humid. Corey wiped his brow for the hundredth time since he'd been there, succeeding only in mixing the sweat on his arm with the sweat on his forehead. He flung his arm down and heard the sweat droplets spatter on the dock's thick planks. If Louisiana were nuked tomorrow, good.

It'd have been a nice area if not for the humidity. The sound of water lapping against the pier beams below, and the dark sky above, alight with twinkling stars, should have been nice. Corey's footsteps clomped as he walked across the dock. This was probably the sturdiest structure on the entire property, and even it was becoming decrepit, judging by the way the railing overlooking the lake was bent out over the water, as if a few too many people had leaned against it at once.

Corey'd stopped to look when he first came out here. The trees in the distance were thin, willowy things, not a single one straight, but bowing and leaning. In the daylight, they were just trees, but in the darkness, obscured by a thick, hovering mist, they were strange and unknowable shadows, leaning into one another as if whispering secrets only the night knows. The water was black, except for where the moonlight managed to get itself through those secretive silhouettes, where it struck the water in shimmering silver-blue luminescence.

There were indications of something meaningful having been done here before; after all, someone had to have built all of this. Besides the simple fact of its existence, there were ropes — blackened with grime — coiled here and there; what looked like a rusted metal crab trap leaning against the house's wall; and various other paraphernalia scattered about, mostly molded or rusted with age. In fact, even things that didn't seem like they should get rusty, such as wooden doors, had rust running down like a brownish-orange liquid that'd been splashed against it and dried as it drained.

The pier here was a huge wooden platform connected directly to the house. Coming out the doorway of what looked like some sort of amalgamated antechamber and storage area, Corey'd stepped directly onto the planks of the pier and, seeing the shack to his left, had run down and burst in, seeking any kind of refuge to have a moment of reprieve. Now, he was heading back the way he'd come, giving only a glance across the water, at the moonlight reflecting on the surface of the inky water and the clandestine meeting of spindly trees in the distance.

He'd begun to feel relaxed, but when he touched the rusted brass handle of the door, every anxiety he'd built up for the last several hours came bursting back like a sledgehammer striking from within his chest. He clutched the handle and squeezed his eyes shut. He just wanted to relax. Damn every one of these redneck freaks, and damn Mia, too, for bringing him here. Thusly encouraged with anger, he opened his eyes beneath thick brows and pulled the door open. As he stepped in, he racked his pistol, then let out a hissing frication as he realized it was too dark to see the chamber. Fortunately, there were a lot of lit candles lying around for no reason. "Rednecks," Corey said under his breath as he pulled back the slider by the flickering orange light of a candle. Looking inside the chamber, he could see the orange glow of the candlelight glinting off of the brass bullet casing. He released the slide and it snapped forward with a whispering metallic ring and a quietus click.

The action brought a rush of memories to mind: His father teaching him gun safety: Keep your finger off of the trigger until you're ready to fire, keep the safety on if you're not going to fire anytime soon, always keep the muzzle pointed down; the parts of a gun: The slide, the trigger, the hammer, the stock, the chamber, the magazine. If only his father had applied the same rigorous standards of gun safety to his marriage, he might have held some dear place in Corey's heart. Instead he was, at best, a tolerable family member.

A whisper of wind came in through a broken window pane, the candle flickered, and Corey's focus returned to the drafty room. Describing every room would be tedious and pointless. They were all the same, with only the specifics of the furnishing changing: Peeling paint, chipped wood and broken electronics scattered about at seemingly random. With a quick check of the safety, Corey shoved his gun into his waistband. On his back was a makeshift flamethrower he'd made with bicycle handlebars, the bike's still-attached brake system, a canister of some kind of pressurized chemical that was flammable enough, and a cylindrical piece of metal strapped to a small, yellow-stained jug with duct-tape. He'd found a leather belt that he was using as a strap.

He gripped the brake-lever and swung the end of it around to the candle he'd been using as light a moment before. Gas fumes seeping out of the tip of the metal pipe, from inside the jug, caught fire and stayed that way, burning like a torch with a mostly closed valve. He pointed the flamethrower toward the center of the room and gave the brake-lever a couple of quick pumps, tensing the braided cord, which pulled the U-shaped brake-pad, pressing down on the cannister's nozzle. Chemical squirted out in a stream, igniting as it passed the starter flame. It wasn't like you might imagine, blasting out in a steady, dry plume. Instead it was almost like liquid fire: Arcing, falling, breaking apart into little droplets of fire that splashed across the floor.

Both of his projectile weapons worked. Lifting the nozzle of the flamethrower, he blew a puff of air to put out the starter flame, then corked the nozzle with a wooden cork he'd shaved thin to fit inside. Swinging the flamethrower behind him again, he withdrew his hunting knife, glanced at the blade, touched the edge a couple of times with the thumb of his off hand to check its sharpness, then slid the knife back into the leather sheath on his thigh. Finally, he pulled his pistol out of his waistband, checked the safety again to ensure it was off, gently slid his finger inside the trigger guard, and started forward across the vestibule.


	3. Chapter 3

The house was so confusing that Corey could never tell where he was, room to room. This one might have been a living room of some sort, or just another antechamber, or an entertainment room. It wasn't very big. He'd been assailed by Man-eating bugs more than once, and was ready when he closed the door behind and heard the humming that he knew was an approaching swarm. He quickly shoved his gun in his waist-band and swung his flamethrower forward, just in time to throw a flame into a dozen or more bugs. Some got through; some always did. He moved to his right. The small room didn't give him long before he hit the wall and had to move forward along it. He tried to keep his shots to short, quick bursts now that the swarm was thinned to only a few. He jerked at the first couple of stings, but then the pain was just expected. Pain wasn't as important as actually surviving.

Corey backpedaled, sending small, brief streams of orange, liquid flame through the air, splashing to the ground where it kept burning. Pausing, he held his breath and looked about, waiting for another sting on his flesh, or a buzz to signal the presence of another bug, but all was silent, and there was no more pain. He noticed the trail of burning liquid that signaled his passing. He'd feel impressed with himself if he didn't feel so emptied of emotion. He was too tired, and he'd seen too much.

One hand still holding the lever of his makeshift flamethrower, he backed into a wall and slumped against it. His head smacked against it as he looked up, breathing heavily with exhaustion and dispersing adrenaline. He'd just taken a break and felt like he needed another one. No, he needed to keep moving, he was letting himself succumb. He pushed off the wall and noticed immediately a little square opening in the wall ahead. He frowned, not having noticed it when he originally passed through this way. He went over and crouched, looking through the opening. On the other side was a room, industrial-looking almost, all gray concrete. A metal banister was visible ahead. There must have been a staircase going downward. A wooden palette was on the left, but he could see no more than that.

Corey considered going through. There was no reason to believe there was anything useful in there, but by the same coin there was no reason to assume there'd be nothing. He decided to take a look. Frankly, there was some part of him that preferred to be in the midst of concrete than this derelict, rustic and rundown hovel. After setting his flamethrower on the floor he shoved it through, then, pistol in hand, got on his knees and crawled to the other side. He grabbed his flamethrower, slung it over his back, and took a moment to survey his surroundings. In this place, with so many dangers, he'd learned quickly to stop and look at everything before he moved. It had saved his life at least a couple of times already.

Just like it'd looked like from outside, it was a gray, concrete corridor, maybe nine feet wide, with a downward staircase. Above were fluorescent tube-lights giving everything a bluish glow, and an eye-straining flicker. There were no monsters he could see; and no bugs, not even a nest. That didn't mean there were no dangers. He thumb-cocked his pistol and eased over to the stairs. It wasn't very steep and didn't go down very far. He had both hands on his gun as he went down the steps almost sideways, to look down where he was going, and back up where he'd come from. He didn't use the railing.

He shrugged, wiping the short sleeve of his shirt against his brow. This room was stuffier than outside, and it felt like floating motes and the moisture in the air clung to his skin. At the bottom of the steps there was an old rolling cart with three shelves on it to the left, next to a flimsy metal shelf against the forward wall. Another chipped, weathered wooden door was the only exit, a contrast with the rest of the surrounding area. Corey glanced back up the stairwell. It was quiet and empty. No reason to turn back. He approached the door, turned the knob, and pulled it open into a dark room. It looked like a shed almost. The whole of the left side of the room was so dark it was almost impossible to see into it. He could make out what looked like one of those giant wooden wiring spools, but that was about it. The only light was a cluster of candles on a workbench, mostly melted, their wax in a flat pool around them. Above the workbench was a strange wire-frame grid, with various tools hanging from it.

Corey immediately considered browsing and taking what he needed, but he hardly had any way to carry any of it. He didn't need to do any delicate work anyway, and besides, anything requiring brute-force he was equipped to handle, mostly. He noticed a paper on the workbench. Probably there wasn't anything useful there, but he was compelled to go take a look. By the light of the candle, he saw an old sheet of paper that must have been rotting, as it was darkened, stained with something brown, and brittle to the touch. The text on it was faded to illegibility. Worthless. He turned to his right. There was a chain-link fence, and behind it was a person in silhouette, standing in an open doorway. Corey froze. A bright light, like a floodlight almost, was coming from behind, casting a glowing light against the person's back; but some of the light hit the person's side, illuminating dirty, matted hair, and a thin arm patched with dirt. The impression was that of a girl. She began moving forward.

"Corey?"

The dim light of the candles struck her face. Corey was driven forward. "Mia!"

Mia clutched the chain-link fence, the candlelight revealing her desperate expression on a dirty face. Her hair was disheveled, and she fairly gleamed with sweat, but otherwise she looked alright. That was a relief, albeit a small one, given the circumstances. "Corey, can you get through this fence? Please, if we could just get past this. I don't know why this is happening, but–"

"It's fine, don't worry," Corey tried to assure her. "We'll get this fence down and get you out." He looked at the fence. It was not very large, and the opening was only about three-people wide. There was no horseshoe latch, no padlock. It was like the fence was being used as a sort of wall. Corey took a step back to take it in. He could feel frustration mounting in his chest as the situation felt more hopeless. He could probably get through the fence – if he had enough time. His flamethrower wouldn't work on this, nor his pistol or his knife. So much for being able to deal with things that required brute-force. He knew how to pick locks, but there was no lock! He was just about to start kicking at the sides where the studs were attaching it to the wall, since they may have been rusted and susceptible to repeated blows, when another silhouette appeared from behind Mia.

"Mia! Behind–" Too late. It was a man in a hoody. He wrapped an arm around her neck and dragged her backward.

"Hey!" Corey yelled, smashing both hands against the fence. It rattled, but stood fast.

"Corey, help me! Corey!" Mia kicked and tried to drop her weight, but it didn't help.

"Don't just stand there," the man taunted as he dragged her back out of the far doorway. "Do something!"

For a moment, the light of the room behind illuminated them both clearly, and then they disappeared around the corner and were gone.

"Come back and fight me!" Corey screamed. His challenge went unheeded. For several moments, he could hear what must have been Mia struggling. There were grunts and squeals, knocking and slapping. The sounds faded. She must have been fighting the whole way. There was nothing he could have done. He had his pistol, but in this light, in the flurry of movement, there was no way he could have gotten off a shot.

Corey realized he had been clutching the chain-link fence with all of his strength. When he released it, there were deep, red grooves in his fingers, and a stinging pain. He clutched his hands into fists and looked back up through the doorway beyond. There had to be another way around. He would save her, but even if he couldn't, he was ready to unleash every ounce of vengeance on these assholes. His fear diminished; indignation flared like soul-fire leaping within his chest, lapping eagerly at his will: Kill, it urged him. Make them die. He'd been accosted by monsters at every turn, but he'd lived. He'd lived and he'd countered their attacks, withstood their numbers and returned with an unmet challenge.

Turning, he made his way up the stairs, gun in one hand, fist in the other. He was no longer trying to escape. He was going to deliver retribution.


	4. Chapter 4

Wait. Corey paused at the top of the staircase. There may be something he could use here. It would be ridiculous to pass it up and go marching wildly through this mad-house with some blinding indignation, unprepared, when he could go marching wildly through this mad-house while prepared instead. He needed to be quick, though. Mia's clock was ticking. Images kept flashing through his mind of her lifelessly body hung on a meat-hook, or laying face-down on the dusty driveway with blood oozing from her mouth, dead eyes still half-open.

At the workbench again, Corey scrounged quickly, then noticed that on the wire mesh behind the bench there was a pair of bolt cutters, of all things. Quickly, he checked his inventory. Something would probably need to be dropped, but what? He had almost enough space, but not quite. Ruefully, he took a moment to glower at a worthless hunk of metal that was taking up space. He'd unwittingly picked it up at some point, though he didn't know why; it just seemed extremely important at the time. He realized only later that he was incapable of putting it down. He could pick it up, turn it in his hands, and look at it. He did so just then, in fact. It was silver-gray, a little bigger than a television remote, and misshapen, as if a car or tank had exploded and this piece of shrapnel had been salvaged. When he tried to put it down, however, he found that he could not. One moment he'd have every intention of putting it down, and the next his mind would be blank, and he would come to his senses still holding it. The only place he could set it down was in his inventory. He tried again to put it down, and again it was like a compulsion spell overcame him, and he simply could not imagine releasing it. His hand extended, the muscles in his fingers began to engage, and then they didn't, and he looked like a friggin' idiot, arm extended as if offering the hunk of metal to the floor as a tribute.

Fine, he thought as he shoved it back into the inventory. He had some batteries that he didn't need. Tossing them behind – they smacked against the wall and clattered to the floor – he reached for the bolt-cutters. A few moments later, he realized he was extending his hand toward the bolt-cutters, and doing nothing else. He heard the batteries rolling on the uneven floor. "What is this!" He shouted, making another effort to reach for the bolt-cutters. This time he was able to get his fingers close to the black rubberized grip, but he could feel something in his mind refusing to let him reach farther, refusing to let him commit to the action. It was almost like indecisive-  
ness, but instead of coming from his own will, it was as though there were some force outside of his control, subduing his intent. In sheer fascination, he tried to overcome that force. He gritted his teeth, poured exertion into his muscles. His finger got a quarter inch closer. The neon orange shafts beckoned him. He focused on them, and it seemed to help, to give a focus with which to overcome the compulsion. It was a lot of effort, though, and with a gasp of air he curled forward, slapping his hands on the workbench, heaving. He realized that he hadn't been breathing. Slapping his hands again on the counter-top he swore. Just a little bit longer and he might have had it.

Something was happening in this place. Something strange, and whatever it was, it had snaked its way into his very mind. Finally disregarding the bolt-cutters, Corey plucked the batteries from the floor, stuffed them into his inventory and returned to the stairs. He had to repeat the process from before of putting his flamethrower on the ground, shoving it through the opening, and then crawling in. On the other side, he equipped his flamethrower and looked about to ensure nothing was going to jump out at him. The way was clear. Now, there must have been some way to get around to the area in which that hooded douche took Mia. Corey stifled the fury creeping within, incited by the image of the event replaying in his mind, and forced himself to remain focused. The area was to his left now, so he moved that way. There was another door that opened into a small room. Rather than go completely in, Corey stood in the doorway, leaving his escape path open contingently. On the floor in the middle of the room was a tattered red rug that must have been regal at one point, but now needed to be burned. Atop it was a wooden pedestal with some sort of built-in projector that was shining a square light on the wall, with a picture of a crow that might have been a still frame from the projector or an actual physical painting.

Corey looked at it, then glanced around, squeezing the grip of his pistol. There was a bulging spot on the wall where the wallpaper had come unglued in the middle rather than the sides or edges. Dirt and unidentified substances stained the walls and ceiling; cobwebs were gathered in every corner. It was, then, the same as most every other room. Feeling somewhat confident that he wouldn't be attacked by anything within the room, he shut the door. It had a lock, so he went ahead and turned the little nub on the tip of the knob. The most obvious thing to check first was the projector. Putting his hand in front of the beam of light revealed that the crow was indeed printed on the wall. This must mean something, he was certain, although he couldn't have explained why he was certain if asked. He popped open his inventory and began assessing each item in reference to the projector until that stupid hunk of metal caught his eye, held his attention. There were doubts, though. How could that possibly help? He pulled it out of the bag, held it in his hand, looked between it and the projector. As he shifted his weight and moved about, his hand passed over the beam of light and a distinct, clear shadow flitted across the wall. He held the metal piece in front of the projector's light. It was a twisted, misshapen thing, and the shadow it cast was amorphous when it was turned and rolled.

As the shadow shifted shape, Corey realized what this must be. A puzzle. He was supposed to match the shadow to the shape of the in-flight crow. He grabbed hold of the metal piece with both hands with interest now, certain he was on the right track. The shadow changed and transmogrified, until he caught sight of a familiar shape. That was it. Now, with only a bit of adjustment here and there – click! Something mechanical shifted, there was the sound of grinding gears, a pause, then a doorframe-sized, rectangular shaped section of the wall, on which the crow was painted, jerked open like a rotating door that'd been caught on something and then sprung free. It spun just enough for a crack to appear, and no more. Corey dropped the hunk of metal. As it clunked to the ground, he quickly withdrew his foot. The object settled heavily on the floor. Corey realized with delight that he'd released it! So the compulsion was somehow tied to using it in some correct place. This situation felt strangely familiar, but his mission called and he didn't bother to dwell on it for more than a moment.

Getting the fingers of both hands in the crack, he tugged. The door yielded, but only with reluctance, and he had to maintain stringent effort as it ponderously turned, the grinding of what sounded like metallic gears coinciding ceaselessly with every inch farther the door was turned. When it was large enough that he could easily fit, Corey released the door, shook his hands against the stinging, then looked through the opening. This didn't lead to a secret room, Corey realized to his dismay, but it just led to a sort of narrow corridor in the wall, barely enough to ease through if he went in sideways. The other side was invisible through the darkness, but the light from the room he was presently in cast enough illumination that he could see a few feet in, and what he saw he did not like. Instead of a dusty, dry space like he'd expect to be between the walls, this particular corridor was of course wet. The boards running the length were not just wet, but the way the minimal light gleamed made them look downright slimy. There was indeterminate wiring weaving between and around the boards, and a generally grimy look to everything as if someone were splashing muddy water on it at intervals. Corey could feel his expression involuntarily twisting in disgust and reluctance, the simultaneous emotions creating an amalgam of pursed, pouting lips; brows pressed together and lifted; and squinted eyes. One might describe it as "distressed."

There was nowhere else to go, though. He'd been just about everywhere, to his knowledge, and after solving a puzzle to get here it was doubtless that something important was beyond the dank interior of these accursed walls. Corey steeled his resolve, unslung his flamethrower, held it out in front of him with one hand, sidled up to the entrance and eased in. Immediately he felt the disconcerting sensation of his shirt, both front and back, chest and shoulder blades, not only touching the corridor walls, but sliding forward with ease. Sliding against the boards, lubricated with an unknown, slimy substance that was cool and soaking through his shirt. He shuddered in revulsion, trying to keep the exposed flesh of his arms from touching anything.

Step by step, he strafed forward with agonizing slowness. Something dripped from above, onto the top of his head, slopped down his hair and brushed cold against his cheek as it fell. Corey released a weepy groan, and then the quiet clicking of an hundred little exo-skeletal legs made him freeze. Bugs, like centipedes, and other things he couldn't identify, with mandibles, were skittering about, appearing on the wood, their little moist bodies reflecting a gleam from the little amount of light. "Oh, Lord!" With a permanent grimace he scooted forward as fast as possible. The hairs on his arm alerted of a crawling intruder and he shook his arm violently, now frantically pushing forward. He burst out of the other side of the corridor shaking and throwing his arms and head wildly, ululating with disgust and horror.

Then he heard a moan and whirled around. There was a huge Man-eating insect nest in middle of the room. It started on the ceiling, with a circumference larger than one of those small exercise trampolines, and thinned as it went down like syrup poured from a bottle. It had overtaken at least three-quarters of some old desk, although there was enough space under the desk that one could crawl under, not that he'd want to with that horror on it. The nest gathered up, consumed most of the desk and spilled onto the floor in a bulbous mass. There were holes all throughout for the little devil-bugs to crawl in and out, to rest and to lay their hell-spawn; the nest itself was similar to a dirt diver's nest, seeming to be made of mud, but also with a mix of what looked like spider webs and also a loving dash of hatred and awfulness.

On the other side of that nest he could see one of the molded, the humanoid creature made of human corpses that had been consumed by some type of fungus that grew in this house. They were dangerous if they got close, because they had tremendous strength, but they were slow and susceptible, as Corey'd figured out, to fire. He didn't want to waste his fuel on this thing, though. Molded seemed to be limitless in supply, and if he tried to take on each one he'd not only use up all of his fuel, but he'd be here until the end of mankind. Besides, he was tired of dealing with them. Gingerly he eased forward. He didn't see any of the Man-eating insects. Normally they'd be crawling all over and – an insect, a full-grown adult, so big you could count the lenses on its eyes, came rushing forward right into his face. Corey almost slapped it with his hand, but quickly withdrew, knowing that they had proboscis strong enough to pierce flesh, leaving nasty puncture wounds. Wheeling backward, he scrambled for his knife on his thigh. The insect followed, sometimes darting in for an attack, but Corey managed to keep just out of its range. Knife pulled, he stopped backpedaling and stood his ground. A few swift slashes and the insect was sliced in half, spurting greenish fluid. It fell in twain to the floor. The molded moaned as it rounded the nest-covered desk.

Corey quickly rushed to the other side of the desk and the molded turned to follow that way. Corey turned back. The molded stopped and watched. "No!" Corey yelled it as if it were a stray dog wandering into his yard. "Go away." He went around the way he'd come and the molded matched him, and then he quickly ran around to the other side. The stalactite-like insect nest hid him from view for a moment and he quickly fell to his hands and knees, scurrying beneath the desk. The molded came around, only his legs visible, and stopped, clearly confused about where its prey went. Corey noticed that he was right next to a hole in the wasp nest. Multiple holes, actually, and to his horror there were baby Man-eating insects crawling all about it. Eyes wide, he stared at them, wings fluttering, feet softly pattering on the soft material of the nest. The molded was just standing there, damn it! Just leave me alone, Corey demanded within the confines of his mind. The molded finally began to hobble away, moaning. The second it was out of sight, Corey began to very, very carefully ease his way out from beneath the desk. He made it. Good. A stinging pain shot up his arm and he let out an alarmed shout, slapping his arm. Lifting his palm he saw a splattered bug. A buzzing thrum arose. Corey did not wait, he rain, with winged hell rising behind him.


	5. Chapter 5

As he rounded the corner and rushed through the open door, he saw that the molded he'd just played a game of tag with was still shambling down the corridor, its back to him. Trying to stop quietly, Corey hunched forward, the balls of his feet pattering against the floorboards. The Man-eating insects were still swarming behind. Even as he stopped, he was casting about for another path. He found it. Making a hard left, he opened a rickety old door and entered a skanky bathroom. He shut the door, held his breath, and waited.

The buzzing hum grew louder. Then there was a tap against the door. Then another, and then a multitude. Stupid bugs; they wouldn't get in by slamming their tiny, diminutive bodies against the door, decrepit as it was. A motion caught Corey's eye and he glanced down. The space between the bottom of the door and the floor was maybe a couple of inches, and some clever bugs had realized this and were crawling under. Frantic, he threw his head about, searching for something to block it. Spying a tattered gray towel on a rusty hanger, he snatched it up, almost pausing in disconcertion when his fingers closed on a hardened, dry-rotted material. Throwing it onto the floor he used his boot to shove it against the crack, quickly stomping on the bugs that had managed to come in. There was no way he could use his flamethrower in here, and the young insects were too small to feasibly use his big survival knife – but that didn't mean it wasn't worth trying. With a motion now practiced again and again, he unsnapped and lifted the securing tab with his pinky, caught the knife handle in clutched fingers and held it up to the ready. The nick-speckled leather handle felt good in his palm: Cool, and firm with traction: the little dents made for a good grip. He could feel the handle practically clinging to the lines of his flesh.

The towel wasn't perfect. There were tattered holes in it, thin threads stretching between the gaps; furthermore, it didn't quite cover the whole length of the crack beneath the door. Skittering legs and fluttering wings scuttled in, while Corey's boot stomped down, again and again until there was an oozing pool of black ichor and dismembered, squashed body-parts. The ones that got through he would dispatch with his knife, although he had to swing many times, and he still suffered several stings. How long would he be in here, he began to wonder, fighting for his life? The end did eventually come. Either the insects became bored with not being able to get through, or discouraged by their diminishing numbers. Fewer bugs were coming through, and the hum of the swarm's collective wings began to decrease in volume until finally, after staring at the bottom of the door for what felt like minutes, knife and boot at the ready, Corey finally realized that no more would be coming. He crouched and wiped the bug guts from his blade on the old, hardened towel, checked the edge with a few taps of his thumb, and slipped it back into its sheath, snapping closed the leather tab. He had intended to stand, but was overcome with a frisson. The weariness, pain and fear all hit him at once. Still crouching, he keeled forward on the balls of his feet and smacked his forehead against the chipped, rotting door where he stayed, shoulders shaking. He wept.

It was catharsis. The sense of futility, of utter exhaustion, washed away with a few minutes of tears. He stood, wiped his eyes with his shirt sleeve, and withdrew his gun from his waistband. Alright, he decided with a sniff, it was time to keep moving. He eased the door open and gazed out of the crack. The molded was gone, and the buzz of the Man-eating insects, as he'd dubbed them, was faint. The bathroom he was in presently was in a short hallway that terminated, from what he could see, in a 90 degree bifurcation, left and right. It wasn't obvious which way he should go, but it was indeed obvious that he could not go back, not with those insects swarming. He was tensing the muscles in his arm to open the door fully when he heard something that instantly stopped him, muscles still tense. Corey listened silently. The sound came again, unmistakable. There was the griding, high-pitched sound of rusted metal rubbing against rusted metal, like a hinge. Then there was another sound: The twisting creak of a weight pressing ponderously against the floorboards. The griding reminded Corey of a see-saw. He heard it whine this way, then that way, and then the wooden floorboard protested again, a long, tightening sound. Then he saw, down the hallway, from the left, a yellow light on the floor, moving to and fro as if being cast from a swinging lamp. He wanted to move backward, into the bathroom, and shut the door, but he was too afraid to move. What if he made a noise? It would alert whatever it was coming.

Staring in horrified fascination, he watched the light grow brighter as it moved along the floor. Then he saw the light source. It was indeed a lamp, swinging by a metal wire-handle, looped through a hole in at the end of a wooden pole. Who, or what, was holding it, though? The floor creaked, the rusted old handle squeaked, and a wrinkled old hand appeared; then an arm, then wild white hair framing the face of what could have been a sweet old lady if not for the blank stare she had. Corey's eyes were wide, his breath caught in his throat as he watched her amble by. It may have just been some old lady, but something was unsettling about her. A strange feeling was screaming in his mind to not let her become aware of his presence. He remained silent, and still as possible. She ambled by, staring straight ahead, the lamp swinging, hinges protesting in high-pitched whines. Her feet eased forward, slowly pressed her weight against the floorboards who groaned in response, and on she went, until she was disappearing around the corner. Corey still did not move, not until he heard a door open, and all of her sounds became quiet, and the door closed; then he stayed at length still, until all had become as silent as a graveyard. Only when his heart stopped thudding audibly in his ears did he dare open the door, wincing at the door's creaking. He nearly tripped on the towel he'd put down, and then he was in the hall, skulking toward the intersection.

Upon poking his head furtively into the hallway, he turned his gaze left and right. A door was at the end of the hallway on the left, and there was another at the far right, where the old hag had gone lumbering. Seeing nothing, Corey stepped into the hallway, already knowing he was going to make a left: he wanted to be as far as possible from that unsettling old woman. With repeated nervous glances over his shoulder, and multiple checks to his pistol to ensure the safety was off, went slowly down the hallway, grimacing at every step that elicited a creak from the floor. The hallway was dark, but faint shadows wobbled on the walls on both sides, thrown from two clusters of candles at each side of the door ahead. The candles sat on the floor, not a sconce. There was no explanation Corey could conceive for why there were so many candles scattered about this old house, or why they were lit, who lit them, and why they were usually just placed on the floor or a desk with no holder of any sort to catch the wax; rather the wax was allowed to melt and collect on the floor in a flat circle, drying untended. The door ahead, once white, was now gray with trails of cracked and peeled paint, with greenish splotches grouped together near the knob. The candles' flickering orange light illuminated it ominously, a conspicuously lit door enshrouded in the surrounding darkness where the candles' lights were too faint to reach, save for the vague, dim glow that managed to make the walls to the sides look more like shifting darkness, alive with flitting specters, rather than solid objects. There was a saying that Corey's best friend had said once, ". . . as heavy as honesty, as solid as truth." There was little truth here in these merciless halls, and it was making Corey bitter.

The board let out a twisting creak as came to a halt, resting all of his weight. He looked at the door ahead, within arm's reach. Every room came with new nightmares. Whether the content was similar or not, it was nearly impossible to become accustomed to it. Corey let himself sense his equipment: The weight of his flamethrower on his back, which bumped lightly against his shoulder blades every step he took a step; the gentle pressure that the leather strap of his knife's sheath exerted around his thigh; the textured grip of his MPM pistol's handle, now moist with the sweat of his own palms. How many times had he heard a rattle and realized it was the gun shaking in his hand? All of his defenses were there. There was nothing more to do but go in, yet fear stayed him. Fear is a funny thing. It's not always the result we fear, but the idea that something at all is going to happen. Just like we find starting something the most difficult part; the scariest part of anything is the moment before it happens.

The door was before him. Corey thumb-cocked the pistol, reached for the rusty knob. It rattled loosely in his hand, insecurely set in the wood. He turned the knob, and the door smashed open, inward, sending him backpedaling, arms wheeling to keep his balance. Two things were going through his mind as splinters from the door cut into his cheek and the corridor rushed past in periphery: Don't fall because there's a monster in front of you, and if you fall, get up fast. Somehow he managed to keep looking up ahead even as he sprawled. The door had ricocheted closed again, and there were three messy rips above the knob, like dull claws had been slashed through it, more ripping than slicing. Then he was aware he was going to fall. He stumbled, landed on his rump and immediately rolled backward and sprung to his feet. To his surprise – a passing notion in the back of his mind – he'd managed to keep hold of his gun and also not shoot himself. The door flew open again, smashing against the wall, and a molded came lumbering out, moaning.

Slamming his right heel to the floor to arrest his backward momentum, Corey took hold of his pistol with both hands and drew a bead on the molded's head. The molded were botanical creatures in nature, born of a fungus that looks normal enough – other than being pitch black – but when it finds a cadaver it'll overtake it, and sort of bring it to life. The result is a horrific humanoid creature that looks like it's made of an unholy amalgamation of slime mold and engine oil. One could probably guess based upon that description that they don't take well to fire, but a well-placed bullet would slow them down pretty good, too. Corey squeezed the trigger. The gun leaped in his hand. The molded's head snapped back. It clawed at its face, thrashing about, and Corey rushed in, leaped forward, and gave it a solid kick in the stomach with the bottom of his boot. It stumbled back, giving him time to swing around his flamethrower and use one of the candles beside the door to ignite the starter flame. Lifting the nozzle, Corey looked to see that the molded was upon him, wicked claws raised, mouth agape and releasing an inhuman roar. Corey pulled the makeshift lever and flames leaped out, consuming the top half of the creature, from the chest up. The flames caught easily and expanded, eagerly consuming the leafy flesh. The molded withdrew, staggered a sinuous path into the room beyond, and fell to the floor, convulsing wildly. The smell coming off of it was like road-kill thrown into a dumpster and set aflame. It was almost a physical force preventing Corey from moving forward. Eyes watering, he lifted his shirt with his left hand, holding it against his mouth and nose like a surgical mask, while bracing his flamethrower between his hip and forearm.

He remained on this side of the doorcase, watching, until the molded ceased its pained convulsions and became but a pile of botanical refuse, soon to be utterly consumed. Lifting the tip of the flamethrower, Corey blew out the starter flame. He flipped the flamethrower to his back again, withdrew his gun, and entered the room, his victory offering only a modicum of confidence against whatever would come next. Being constantly assaulted was making him anxious, almost manic. His gun began to rattle in his hands. He was shaking again.


	6. Chapter 6 and 7

**VI**

Pinching his nose against the smell, Corey stepped into the room. It was small, cramped. There was a sense of hominess that made it comfortable, and therefore completely discomforting and eerie. The parquet floor, although dusty, still had a visibly interesting pattern. In the center of the room was a long rug, running down to the middle, zig-zagging left and then forward again, where it made a corrugated path up a short staircase laid into an alcove of sorts. At a door it veered sharply right and disappeared behind a corner. Toward the staircase, dozens of tiny lit candles running along each side of the rug gave the room a flickering yellow glow, surprisingly bright, with all of the candles clustered together, as if huddling against the cold. Corey grinned at the absurdity of such a nice, royal carpet and flooring in this hick shack.

Sparse, dilapidated furniture made the room feel even smaller. It was like being in a womb, only smellier, stickier and without Mother's comforting heartbeat, or her soft coos: There were only the sounds of his breathing, and the house's settling creaks. Corey shut the door behind him as he came, and cursed under his breath when he found no locking mechanism on the door. Oh, well. Half the things in this place could just smash the door down anyway. The air was musty, suffocating. Breathing was unfortunately necessary and necessarily uncomfortable. To his right Corey spied a bureau, old and worn, with a dirt-caked mirror atop it. The finish of the wood was peeling, revealing a lighter color beneath. It was all covered in dust and cobwebs. Some of the drawers were pulled out, or hanging, half-crushed; or on the floor; or completely missing. Still, the mirror worked. Corey reached out a hand and wiped it as clean as he could get it. The image he saw appearing was ghastly: Hair matted with dirt and fluids he didn't want to think about, clothes torn and stained; his short beard had grown noticeably and was itself grimy. Dark circles beneath both eyes made him look like he'd been punched at least twice. He felt like he'd been hit way more. He started in horror, but then chuckled at his own reaction. Then he laughed, then chortled. He'd scared himself. He slapped his hand on the desk, leaning for balance as thick laughter weakened his knees. He looked worse than Mia had!

This whole situation was so messed up. His girl tried to kill him, an old lady was walking around like some kind of matriarchal zombie, and he looked like he was cos-playing as someone from an action movie. Stupid! It was all so stupid. Corey hauled off and smashed the mirror with the butt of his pistol. His laughter vanished. Silence returned, except for his heavy, sharp breaths sucking in through his nostrils. With pursed lips he flipped his gun back around, racked it, and in doing so, looking down, he noticed that in one of the drawers was a small cube-like clip of ammunition, with the bullets all clustered together, two-by-two. With a bitter grin he plucked the ammo from the drawer, muttering, "Rednecks." It was impossible not to consider what was going through their minds, just leaving weapons and bullets laying everywhere, even in completely inexplicable places. This bureau here, for instance, had clearly not been touched in a long time, yet one of these redneck freaks had just come by and dropped a clip of ammunition into one of the drawers, probably absentmindedly while trying to seduce one of his cousins. Corey caught sight of his right eye staring back at him from one of the shards of the mirror that had fallen onto the top of the bureau's dusty wooden surface. He saw the dirt he hadn't been quite able to completely wipe from the mirror still obscuring the bottom of the shard, and above it, where the glass was clean, his disembodied eye reflected back at him. Sometimes you'll see yourself in a reflection and realize how you really look. Maybe you're fatter than you realized, more muscular, or slouching. Corey saw a hard, angry expression beneath a heavy brow. It was not who he'd ever been, ever expected to be.

Without really knowing why, he gingerly picked the mirror shard from the bureau and slipped it into his inventory. Wait. Had he just taken that? Why had he been able to take it when he'd been unable to take the bolt cutters, which would have been far more useful? Shrugging the thought from mind – what else was there to consider? - he pulled a couple of bullets from the newly acquired clip and proceeded to slip them into the pistol's magazine. His fingers were shaking. He struggled to keep hold of them, and one bullet, back pressed by his thumb and tip jittering with metallic scraping against the pistol, jostled stubbornly away from the magazine. Corey's thumb thrust suddenly forward and the bullet went skittering across the floor. "Shit!" He uttered impulsively. The bullet came to a spinning halt near the center of the room. Corey approached and bent, sighing, trying to restrain his emotions. There was no getting out of her if he his head wasn't clear, and–

He was crouching and could feel every little bend and contortion of the floorboards. The board beneath his forward foot shifted slightly. Arms held wide to the sides for balance, Corey stood, slowly, and eased away from the center of the room, toward the staircase. He could sense when he was on more solid ground and released a sigh. Noticing he was still holding the bullet he'd just fetched - to his mortal peril - he slipped it into the magazine, jerked back the slide and held the gun at the ready: In front of his body, pointed to the floor, both hands embracing the grip. On the door ahead, illuminated by candlelight, Corey could see that there was what looked like a crow, or a raven, attached to some small planks of wood that shaped an upside-down triangle. The bird looked stuffed, judging by how its wings were out to the sides, beak open. Now, who on earth would put something like there, and why? Was it something done in preparation for him, or did these backwater hicks think it was decorative? To each his own, but Corey never found it particularly tasteful to decorate your abode with dead animals. He felt a fit of giggles coming back. Was he going crazy? The thought sobered him quickly. This place wasn't going to drive him mad, he refused to let it. The door, he told himself, focus on the door. There may be something useful about it. He ascended the stairs.

The old hag rounded the corner and grabbed him by the collar of his shirt. The shock gave way as quickly as it came and he grabbed hold of her wrists to pull her hands off – and they remained. So surprised by her strength, he didn't even think about the gun in his hand. The lady was right in his face, so he could see the way her matted hair stuck together in dirty clumps; so close he could count the gaps between the teeth she still had. "I thought I told you to stay out!"  
"What are you even talking about? You never said anything to me, you old fart!"

With more strength than he would ever have guessed, she heaved, throwing him forward. His hurled body cleared the steps completely. He landed heavily on his back, every limb convulsing with the shock of impact, and he tumbled backward end-over-end. This lady must have been taking her vitamin-S to have that kind of strength. It was still just an old lady though. Give me a break! He shook his head, trying to regain his senses. "You think you can take me, Grandma?" He shouted in defiance as the old lady came walking down the steps toward him, cackling. Leaning forward, hands still on the floor to push himself up, a peal of snapping wood coincided with a large area of the floor around him dropping about a foot down. Corey crouched low, every limb pressed to the ground. The old lady kept coming.

Not good. This floor was going to go any second. Maybe if he just rushed quickly away he could escape it before the inevitable. Muscles tense, Corey began to ease up. A twisting, groaning whine of the wood signified something's structural integrity was about to completely give. There was no way he was going to get off of this floor in time. Then something snapped and every floorboard tilted inward with a roar of smashing boards and cracking supports. The floor came out from under him and it was as much a result of luck as awareness that he was able to catch hold of an outcropping floorboard. He only managed to get one hand on it, and only after he started dropping. His weight slammed onto his left arm, jerking the muscle and sinew from his forearm all the way down to his armpit and streaking a line of stress pain along his side. His right arm dropped and he looked down after it, his arm hanging listlessly as boards clattered into a veritable pit below. Dust and wood-chips fluttered down, while floorboards settled onto one another and splashed into a shallow pool.

Looking back up, he saw the old crone step to the edge of the pit and lean down toward him. He realized he no longer had his pistol, and this was a vulnerable position. If only he could get himself up. The decision of what to do was made for him when the board he was holding snapped, and he and the board fell, his left arm extended outward as if confused, still wanting to hold the useless plank of wood that was joining his descent.

He hit the water with a splash, but it was shallow and although it reduced some of the impact, he still felt his back collide with the muddy floor, knocking the wind out of him. Visions of the hag leaping down onto him and biting a chunk out of his neck spurred him up. Disoriented, barely able to see, he grabbled in the water for his pistol. His hand touched something hard. There! He grabbed it, jerked it up, water splashing. He needed to defend himself. He could hear her shrieking incomprehensibly above. She was going to be down there any second. He stood, shaking the water from the gun. Would it even fire?

The old lady paced at the edge of the pit, calling down. "Alright, you little cocksuck–"

Corey fired. Whatever she was going to say was cut off by soaring led, and her neck snapped back like she'd been kicked in the teeth. He looked at his pistol, then back up. Well, it still worked. With his vision doubled and blurred, he was surprised he hit her at all. More surprising was that instead of dying like a normal person, she just lowered her head and glowered down at him, nostrils flaring, eyes wide with madness. "You son of a–!" He fired again, cutting her off, and again her head snapped back, this time with a scream of frustration and pain. "Don't–!" He fired thrice more in a quick burst, and thrice she jerked, wailed in either pain or exasperation, or both. If she was going to keep talking, he was going to keep shooting.

"Come on, wench! Give me another shot at that ugly head of yours!"

Then a sight so horrifying that it's his greatest regret of the entire escapade occurred: Instead of trying to talk again, the lady put her hand forward and from her flesh crawled a Man-eating insect. Then another. Then dozens. They all swarmed around her body as if she were a living nest, crawling in and out of her mouth, through her tangled mass of gray hair, and even into the holes at the corners of her eyes. Corey's expression twisted into a horrified grimace. Then he remembered his flamethrower. From his inventory he drew a flint and stone and began striking the stone to the flint. Nothing. "Come on, you! Come on!" He struck the flint to the stone again and again. The swarm above became audible, rising from a buzz to a swelling roar of flapping wings. A spark winked into and out of existence. He was now striking wildly, and sparks would come every couple of strikes, then every strike. He glanced up from moment to moment to see. The bugs gathered into a billowing cloud, preparing to descend upon him. They started down, a biological weapon, consisting of millions of individuals, all eager to kill. The starter flame sparked to life, its orange glow alighting Corey's hands and arm like a shaft of light suddenly piercing a cloud and shining upon him with favor. Dropping the flint and stone carelessly into the swampy waters he swung the flamethrower up, pulled the lever, and didn't let go.

The swarm was halted, dozens of their number dying instantly giving the hive-mind pause. Some notion in Corey's mind made him think that if he could stop the old lady he would stop the swarm, and furthermore that the way to stop the lady was to put enough bullets into her stupid skull. He pulled his pistol with his left hand and fired a couple of rounds, then on the third pull the gun just went click. He turned the pistol in his hand to look at it with shock, his jaw hanging. He needed to reload. He needed to fend the bugs. They were becoming agitated, ready to come down again.

"You're gonna die, boy, and you're gonna feel it every second until the lights go out."

Corey swung his flamethrower back, pulled his ammo clip and began reloading, one bullet at a time. The swarm charged. It wasn't fully loaded, but he had no choice. He racked the pistol, equipped his flamethrower and kept at them. They stung him, sure, a bunch of times, but they were dying faster than he was, and he'd been stung before, dozens of times now. Sometimes the swarm would get weary of their depleting numbers and ascend to recoup, and he'd take the chance to get off a few shots at the old lady who was too stupid to not stand at the precipice. Too eager to throw insults, he guessed. Finally, after what felt like an hour, the old lady's head snapped back, she dropped to her knees. Slowly, she tilted forward, eyes rolling up into her head. She toppled forward into the pit, plopping with a splash into a pathetic, motionless heap. Corey made one more pass with the flamethrower, but all the bugs had either died or fled.

Throwing the flamethrower around to his back, swinging by the improvised strap, he reached for his knife and drew it in one motion: Pinky unsnaps the leather tab, fingers grasp the handle, knife slides up. He descended upon her inert body, stabbing, cursing, screaming. Fingers grasping the hilt, arm swinging down, knife plunging into flesh. It felt strangely like stabbing a foam block, but he did stab, again and again, until blood was coating his shirt, splattered on his face. His right eye was now permanently closed, for a thick glob of blood had smacked across that side of his face. Finally, he stopped. Standing slowly, every muscle aching, he stood over her perforated body.

"Say something, bitch."

 **VII**

Scrambling onto the pile of wood, he managed to leap and get a-hold of a sturdy outcropped board and pull himself up, biceps knotting. It's a good thing, he thought, that my friend convinced me to do body-weight training. Corey stood and turned, compelled to glance back down into the pit, just in time to see the old wench's flesh writhe like it were made of grubs; then she began to collapse, or deflate. Corey's face twisted in revulsion, but he couldn't manage to stop looking. He witnessed the body, once relatively normal in appearance, squirm and break apart and skitter among the broken boards and stones. When every trace had vanished among the debris, Corey became aware of his own horrified expression, but could not, for several moments, manage to wrench the facial muscles from their state of paralyzed tension.

Finally regaining control by shaking his head violently, he threw the mud from his pistol and began to work on reloading it with the limited ammo he had remaining. As he did so, he muttered miserably to himself. "Fucking rednecks."


End file.
